


Blood From Stone

by Mylos



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BrOT4, Gen, Mystery, Suspense, noir-ish, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylos/pseuds/Mylos
Summary: Questionable circumstances coalesce to find d'Artagnan locked in a room.





	1. The Room

_The Room_

_-/-_

The room was dull and small, swathed in shadows as the only torchlight hung high on the wall. So high it would require a very tall ladder to set and tend to it.

There was no ladder in the room.

With no housing nor chimney to shield or direct it, the torchlight's flames flickered incessantly, swaying back and forth, appearing occasionally to drip lines of light through the air.

No matter where he stood, d'Artagnan felt his gaze drawn up to it. Up to the dripping lines of light.

Up to the swaying source of shifting shadows.

After a few hours of pacing, he found he had a crick in his neck.

-/-

The room was cold.

There were no windows he could see in the space, no gaps or chimneys, yet the vague howl of blowing wind continued to seep down to him from the blank, dark area of the ceiling. And a high ceiling it must have been. High enough to remain cloaked in darkness, higher than the range of illumination the tall-set torchlight was capable of.

He stared and stared, peering upwards, but could find no hint of the room's final roof.

For all his looking, the space beyond the lamp's reach of light presented him with nothing but a void of darkness and occasional moan of wind.

-/-

The room had a narrow table, four chairs, and an empty tin plate with a tall cup placed next to it.

When d'Artagnan sat, every single one of the four chairs wobbled at the slightest shift of his torso, no matter where he moved them to or how he adjusted them on the uneven floor.

When he hitched his hip to the table so as to rest his body there instead, it, too, refused to provide stillness. The cup wobbled as he leaned. The plate rattled gracelessly as it rocked. His muscles tensed at the imbalance and thereafter refused to loosen. Even after he'd stood up and away from the roughened wood.

Eventually, he returned to the wall for his support—arms folded, hands tucked up to his armpits, eyes drifting up, and up, to the flickering lamplight, again, and again.

And again.

When thirst began to settle into his throat, he reached absently for the cup on the table, before remembering that it was empty, coming around to that realization only after feeling its near weightlessness in his palm.

He set it down.

Scuffing his boots over the mortared floor, as an alternative for his focus, he paced the small space, again, until that lack of occupation numbed the acuity of his senses and he found himself reaching for the cup once more.

After the third time, he turned the cup all the way over and balanced the plate on top of it—as a reminder to himself not to reach for it—then stepped gingerly away from the whole setup so as to not bump the rickety table and accidentally topple the arrangement.

Forgoing another attempt at the wobbly chairs, he pressed his back to the wall and rubbed the crick in his neck—closing his eyes and bending his head to keep from staring at the lamp.

Behind his eyelids, however, he discovered the glow of it remained, flaring before his eyes as though he still stared at it.

A trick of the darkness that made it slow to fade.

-/-

The room echoed—like a long hollowed corridor, or tunnel, or cave—gathering faint snatches of sound from the spaces without and dispersing them through the room like the voices of ghosts.

Partially formed ghosts.

Dismembered spirits, each with half their tongue cut out.

When he began to hear the remnants of familiar voices bleeding down to him through the whispers, he thought—probably—it was his mind playing tricks on him.

He blamed it on his preoccupation with the crick in his neck.

And the lamp.

When he heard the distinct hiss of his name and looked upward for the source, the crick in his neck jumped in spasm. He clamped his fingers to it as a flare of lamplight crawled up the wall, cresting the brick at the highest point yet to his observation.

Still, it revealed nothing.

Digging fingers into his cramped muscle, he closed his eyes and listened to the phantom sounds, trying to pick them apart, bartering with his mind around the illusion of their familiarity.

He swallowed tightly and tried not to think their names, but their names came regardless: Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

The ceiling gap howled at him and from somewhere far away, he thought he heard the sound of angry dogs. Their barks dragged in by the wind.

Angry dogs and rumbling thunder.

Angry dogs in an angry storm.

Pursing his mouth to keep from grinding his teeth, he bent one knee up, tucked the flat of his boot into the stone he leaned against, and looked down at the uneven ground.

As he did, the void above him bayed warningly and crackled anew, bringing to bare more thunder and wind, and he thought, somewhere—out there—it must be raining.

Fleetingly, he allowed himself to wonder—were his friends out there, with it? Or somewhere in here, with him?

As the gale died down, he heard his name whispered, distortedly, in the wind, and thought it better if he did not think of them at all.

-/-

tbc


	2. The Man

_The Man_

-/-

The man, when he eventually entered, was tall, and wore a neat and dark doublet. He had the bearing of a gentleman with the build of a laborer—wide shoulders and strong, clean hands. Hands that caught the wavering light in the room at odd angles. Hands such as a farmer or plowman might have.

Perhaps he was one, d'Artagnan thought.

Or perhaps he was simply a work-inclined marquis, given to the practice of physical study and battle play.

Under the sickly flickers of the accursed lamp, his manner towards d'Artagnan was polite.

He gestured to one of the rickety chairs at the narrow table as though offering his guest a place in the king's court, then turned away to unbutton his coat and sling it over the back of one of the other chairs, all before d'Artagnan could even glower a refusal. The man did it as though it was a given that d'Artagnan would take him up on the offer of a wobbly chair he might have been sitting in all along, and be grateful.

Keeping his arms folded and his back to the wall, d'Artagnan stared and didn't move.

Through the heavy door, a girl came in after with a carafe. Calmly removing the plate from the station d'Artagnan had assigned it, she righted the tall cup and set to filling it.

Silent and demure all the while.

Her method of pouring was delicate and precise, bringing the liquid right up to the rim so that d'Artagnan could not quite perceive where the water started and the cup began.

Until the reflection of torchlight flickered across the surface and revealed it.

The rebounding glare from looking for it gave him a headache, and he swallowed, dryly, swinging his eyes away to conceal the wince.

When the girl finished, she set the heavy carafe on the center edge of the table without making anything wobble, even a little, and took her leave. The man nodded respectfully at her exit, then sighed with weighted authenticity—as though he was the one with the crick in his neck and no water for hours.

While the girl had been pouring, he had been slowly rolling up his sleeves—like one weary from a hard day's work—and with that task done, was smiling, tiredly, in d'Artagnan's direction. He gestured again at the wobbly chair. "Please, Monsieur d'Artagnan. You and I, we should speak."

By both intrinsic and studied stubbornness, d'Artagnan maintained his position, digging his back into the brick. "Excellent," he clipped, wishing his voice to be sharp. He clenched his jaw as his throat grated instead, making the word emerge softer and rougher than he'd intended.

Studiously, he ignored the water.

Following a determined swallow, he cleared the gravel from his tongue and tried again. "Why don't you begin by telling me where my friends are and what you've done with them?"

The man's eyebrows lifted, as if this question was truly unexpected.

D'Artagnan frowned, watching the moving lamplight play across the man's face. When their eyes met, he refused to blink.

Within the next flicker, the man's expression became gentle and he let his gesturing hand drop away from the chair it was offering. "Of course," he said. "Of course. You must be very worried about them."

By pure reflex, d'Artagnan lowered his chin, his throat constricting sharply.

In response, the man tilted his head, resting his hands wearily at his hips—a stance from which he examined d'Artagnan with unreadable contemplation.

"Yes, yes, of course you're worried," he finally mumbled.

D'Artagnan lifted his chin and didn't move.

The man let the silence stretch to a thin string, then sighed and gestured again at the chair he'd offered previously. "That is why, I think, we should speak. I would have you know, it was not my intention for you or your friends to be placed in this situation, and if I'd been here, I would have done my best to stop it. Again, I beseech you, please sit, Monsieur d'Artagnan. I imagine you've neither slept nor rested in quite some time."

Quietly, the man adjusted his folded doublet, then sank tiredly into the chair it adorned, directly opposite the seat he'd offered d'Artagnan. He rubbed his eye before looking up again, to where d'Artagnan hadn't moved. "Or do you prefer to be called Charles?"

At that, d'Artagnan started, unfolding his arms despite himself. "Nobody calls me Charles," he heard himself say. He took a step forward before that thought caught up with him. Recovering at the end of a heartbeat, he went motionless and glanced away, forcing nonchalance to his demeanor.

The effort made him feel strangely heavy.

His neck ached.

The torchlight juddered, begging his gaze to glance upward.

"Besides, Monsieur, would that not be a touch too familiar, coming from one I've never met?"

The man's face turned mildly sheepish—an oddly tentative expression to contrast with his imposing stature. "Forgive me, Charles. It's just that your father always called you—"

The movement was miniscule before he caught it this time, but again d'Artagnan advanced towards the table. "You knew my father?"

"A fine and respected man," came the answer. An answer accompanied by lowered eyes and a solemn nod. "There was a reason he was chosen to represent the interests of Gascony to the king… before…" The man glanced up with eyes that were startlingly bright, before he grimaced and looked down again. "Before. When you and he endeavored to travel to Paris… before his untimely death."

Crossing himself absently, with the distant expression of one caught up in memory and mourning, the man added, "God rest his soul," in a reverent whisper.

D'Artagnan was abruptly aware of the way his own chest was moving. The way his heart was beating and his lungs expanding. With a hand to his sore neck and that wary cognizance tightening his muscles, he drew nearer to the table, sinking hesitantly into the closest chair.

His stomach clenched as the seat wobbled and he shifted forward to keep it still, cautiously balancing his forearms on the table's edge as he stared. "Who are you?"

Rousing from apparent absent-minded contemplation, the man caught d'Artagnan's gaze and sighed. "I am one who was part of the delegation that supported your father as representative of this region—representative to the king regarding the question of tax concerns in Gascony. I am one of the delegation that sent you, and your father, on the fateful journey that claimed his life."

"I don't know you," d'Artagnan said hesitantly as he considered the man's features. Slowly, he shook his head. The lamp flame above moved with him, making the shadow of motion grow large over the walls and then vanish.

Again, the man lowered his eyes, fixing his gaze on the rough tabletop. "You are quite right. You and I have never met. I… you see, at the time of that endeavor… During that time I had not resided in Gascony for many years, and even when I did maintain my residency, it was not so near to Lupiac. Though my family maintained our property here, I left them after… well, after my own father passed." The expression that appeared on his face at that point vacillated between a grimace of self-deprecation, and a shadow of guilt.

The watery reflection across the surface of the cup between them seemed to sharpen it.

D'Artagnan blinked, feeling the familiarity of those emotion slither through his own stomach.

"It may have been cowardly," the man continued, "but my father's death was so sudden, and afterward… Afterward, everywhere I looked, I saw his face. Some say, even now, that I abandoned a measure of my responsibility when I left here. And perhaps they're right. Though at the time, I sincerely believed those who were dependent upon my governance would get on better without me—that I could manage their support from afar well enough. So I left, and assumed there were more in Gascony like your father then there were those that would do it harm, and I convinced myself there was no reason for me to stay here or to care which individuals those were."

The flame above trembled under a moan of wind, bouncing the moving light over the man's face. "I know better now," he concluded.

The howl from the void increased, rumbling downward with the echo of thunder. The man grimaced, looking up to it.

A storm then, d'Artagnan thought, feeling the rumble of thunder like a matchstick striking over his mind and muscles. A real storm. Not his imagination. He rubbed his neck.

"After your father's death—when LaBarge began sacking the farms of Gascony by the use of his appointed position," the man continued, "I realized I could no longer stay away. I took up my residency, and was eventually chosen to represent Gascony's interests in your father's stead. A duty I took humbly—knowing I could not perform it as well as he. But still, a duty I do not take lightly. There are good people here, Charles, and they did not deserve what LaBarge visited upon them."

"LaBarge is dead now," d'Artagnan informed. His through was dry. "He's of no more concern, to you or to Gascony. And none of what you've said explains who you are, what we're doing here, or where my friends are."

The man nodded, meeting d'Artagnan's eye. "I was coming to that. Unfortunately, LaBarge wasn't working alone. In addition to the brigands he paid to sack and pillage the farms that were destroyed, we've learned he had allies. Powerful allies—allies from within this region. Men who were working with LaBarge towards its destruction."

D'Artagnan straightened, keeping to the edge of the chair as it lurched. "Residents of Gascony? Working with LaBarge?"

"Yes. Associates who provided LaBarge and his cohorts with information about where and when they might make their attacks through least resistance. Associates who pointed out the most vulnerable farms and residents."

"Farms whose stewards were away," mumbled d'Artagnan, feeling cold settle into his chest—a familiar strain that had never quite gone away since learning what LaBarge had done to his farm.

"In some cases, yes."

D'Artagnan swallowed. "And these men…"

"These men also aided LaBarge by hiding the wealth that was being stolen from these farms and residences. Men who also, no doubt, hoped to apply for possession of the sacked land once all was said and done, and who have unfortunately continued some portion of LaBarge's legacy, even after he was arrested. I'm afraid that's why you're here, Charles. They… there are some here who believe that you…" The man stopped, glanced at the heavy metal door, then sighed and returned his gaze. "There are some here in Gascony who believe you to be one of them."

D'Artagnan blinked, sitting straighter. "What?"

He played the last sentence over though his head to be sure he'd heard it right and felt his heart trip to a gallop.

_"What!?"_

-/-

tbc


	3. The Accusations

_The Accusations_

-/-

"What!?" d'Artagnan repeated. He drew upright, causing the chair to jolt and rebalance. Insensate fury surged through his limbs, and he bent forward rigidly, fire in his lungs. "I _killed_ LaBarge—in a duel before the king himself. _My_ farm was amongst those pillaged and destroyed. Who would possibly even _think_ —"

"I know. I know." The man held up a hand in a calming gesture. A hand he then pressed to his own chest, over his heart. "Charles, you must understand, _I_ don't doubt you. It is, and forever will be, to my great regret that I wasn't here to stop you from being… detained—"

"I was not detained," d'Artagnan hissed. "I was _attacked_."

"—but you haven't been seen in Gascony since your father's death. And there have been… rumors about your conduct… in Paris."

His eyebrows rose. He gritted his teeth. "My conduct in Paris?"

"Baseless rumors, I'm sure. Gossip passed by the idle minor courtiers returning south after a season in the city. You know how they are. Anxious to spread tales meant to confirm how the reputation of King Louis's court is proving well-founded, evidenced by the lascivious detail that it has managed to corrupt the conduct of one of Gascony's own. The people here love stories. Parisian affairs and court intrigue are amongst their favorites."

"I don't understand."

"Baseless rumors, Charles. As I said." The man waved his hand. "Tales of you and a… married woman, recently taken into the service of the queen." He laughed as though it was ridiculous.

D'Artagnan swallowed. Warm indignation began to spread through his blood.

"Tasteless as it may be," the man continued, "gossip is entertainment, even this far from Paris, as I'm sure you remember. And regardless of the veracity, it's created some questions. As such, there are those who feel your interests and loyalties may have been… compromised… while you've been away. And that perhaps your honor—"

That was the tipping point.

A haze of color washed over d'Artagnan's vision and he bolted to his feet, knocking into the table and causing the water in the cup to slosh over onto the wood. The running liquid spread the glaring reflection of the bouncing torch flame, making it zip like fire across the table as the rising buzz of aggravation erupted in his head.

"My _honor!_ " he shouted. "I'm a _Musketeer!_ A commissioned soldier of the king's own personal guard! My friends and I came here to ensure that the new regional superintendent _wasn't_ carrying on LaBarge's legacy and to bring aid from the court in reparation for the destroyed properties. Aid which took us _months_ of appeal and supplication to secure from the king."

"Charles—"

"No!" D'Artagnan shoved away from the table and its slick surface all at once, slamming the chair into the wall behind him, then he surged back, slapping his palm down. "Holding me here like this is an affront to the crown, an affront to the Musketeers, and an affront to the honor of Gascony! You have no right!"

Having shifted deliberately beyond the sluice of water, the man rose carefully to his feet, his full stature taller than Porthos's.

Imposing as he was, his expression showed as earnest and his voice emerged calmly. "I understand, Charles. I do. Your anger is justified. I would never say otherwise. If it were up to me, you would not have been accorded a single moment of doubt, nor would you have suffered a moment of the indignity caused by these… ridiculous accusations. But, there are others here who…"

D'Artagnan shoved away from the table anew, causing the cup to spin across the damp surface. "Who? Who are these people? These accusers? I demand to meet them."

The man sighed, glancing warily at the closed door. "My hope was that by gaining permission to speak with you before they did, you and I would be able to work together to solve this situation before it grew out of hand. Though I fear that's already happened."

"It grew out of hand the moment my fellow Musketeers and I were ambushed—were accosted and had bags placed over our heads while our limbs were tied like criminals."

"That may be, Charles, but you must understand. Gascony is populated with a far more cautious people than you remember. As you well know, the people here have little reason of late to trust those who have been set apart by the king's authority. LaBarge's abuse of position illustrates that well enough. And he is only one example amongst many I could name."

"Gascony has seen its share of conflict. The people here have always been cautious, just never this stupid."

"Nevertheless." The man sighed. "In the wake of LaBarge's actions, their caution is amplified. Therefore, when it comes to you… and your," the man paused, looking down and away, "and your friends… the people of Gascony have little reason to believe you to be on their side."

Leaning forward on his fists, d'Artagnan glared, the muscles in his neck coiled and throbbing. "LaBarge killed two Musketeers before we stopped him," he growled softly. "I'm a Musketeer. My friends are Musketeers. Any of LaBarge's _associates_ are as much our enemies as they are Gascony's. To treat us in this fashion is folly by any measure." He pointed a finger as he straightened and though he persisted, was discomfited when his dry voice abruptly failed him and came out in a rasp. "Let me speak to those who would dare to accuse us and I will stop this madness. If you are even half as honorable as my father would have been in your position, you'll make that happen."

"I assure you, I'm striving to. My fear is that those responsible for taking you into custody are not in a proper frame of mind to be reasoned with. That's just it, Charles—"

" _D'Artagnan!_ My name is _d'Artagnan_."

"D'Artagnan, then," the man conceded readily, but straightened. "It may not seem like it, but your having been brought here—it was the best I could do for you at the time. However, your friends—"

"What about my friends?"

Before the man could answer, a loud knock bore its way towards them from the direction of the door. There was an echoing clang behind it, as though steel was beating against steel down a distant, unseen, hallway.

A fight?

Doors closing?

Mere echoes of the continuing storm?

Suddenly, the door was open and the same demure girl who'd brought in the carafe stepped through it. The dark gap of hallway behind her wavered under a dull flare from the flame-light. And though the man was blocking the door, d'Artagnan stared, seeking the profiles of the guards beyond her, and catching only a glimpse before the door swung back near the frame and cut off his vision.

Ignoring d'Artagnan completely, the girl stepped directly over to the man and, standing on her toes, whispered something muffled in his ear as he bent down to hear her.

She glanced at d'Artagnan once while she spoke—a careful look from the corner of her eye that made his stomach curl with the certainty that she was saying something he should hear.

"What's going on?" he said, unwilling to play the game of polite prisoner.

The girl dropped back to the flat of her feet when she finished whispering, looked up at the man and waited.

Glancing at d'Artagnan, but not answering him, the man gave the girl a grim nod, and was already collecting his doublet as she plucked up the carafe and went back out the door.

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan repeated, starting to move.

"I'm afraid I have to go," the man said. "But I'll be back. As soon as I have… I… I'll be back."

"Wait. Tell me what's going on. You wanted my help to keep this from getting out of hand—then tell me what's going on!"

The man hesitated, holding his doublet and glancing between d'Artagnan and the door. "You were correct. It already is out of hand—one of your friends has attacked his guards. I'm sorry, d'Artagnan, I've got to go."

"Wait!" demanded d'Artagnan, surging toward the opening as the man moved through it. He got to the door just as it closed, and pounded his fist into the frame. "Wait!"

"Wait!"

From the other side, there was no answer.

No sound.

Above him, the wind howled and the high lamplight changed direction, flooding light over his head, then leaving him in shadow.

Ignoring the bruises on his knuckles, he slammed his palm to the door, beating hard with his frustration.

_Wait._

-/-

tbc

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of another fic in my list of languishing works, a part of which spun off and spawned this (you can guess which one, and get bonus points if you get it right, which will mean absolutely nothing to you, but would be fun).


End file.
